


this same place is getting old

by piagnucolare



Category: Highway (2002 Cox)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, and some of the stuff in here.... my worst writing, but not really because i don’t know an Ecstasy, i have to say... some of the stuff in here might be my Best Writing, me ending this fic so abruptly that it triggered my motion sickness, not beta’d buuut grammarly did her best again. she hated pilot’s name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: “I’m thinkin’ you, me, and this little bag of trail mix should take a trip out to the desert to watch the sunset. How ‘bout it, Pi?”Pilot thinks that sounds fuckinggay, and like a bad idea since he’s already-kind-of-maybe in love with his best friend, but also— in what fucking universe would he ever say no to Jack Hayes?
Relationships: Pilot Kelson/Jack Hayes
Kudos: 16





	this same place is getting old

**Author's Note:**

> YOU GUYS IVE NEVER DONE ECSTASY and i don’t Know how to read so i couldn’t find sources describing it so the drug use is whack in this thing i’m sorry i will try again w my next fic *sad cowboy emoji*
> 
> set sometime before the events of the movie— i tried to make it as canon compliant as possible (?) but there are still some gaps here and there

They’re sprawled out on the living room floor, blinds drawn shut to block out the glare of the late-afternoon sun, and if Pilot shifts his arm a little higher, he’d be touching Jack’s skin. 

They don’t say anything, don’t move, just lie there in the dark, listening to the box fan whirring, circulating the stale, humid air. Every now and then the breeze blows over Jack’s skin, and Pilot catches a whiff of sweat and pool chlorine. He probably smells like chlorine too, given that he had to wade around in the therapy pool looking for some old lady’s wedding ring. Jack’s lucky— Pilot’d give anything to clean rich guys’ pools and fuck their equally-rich wives while they’re out of the house. 

He snorts, an ugly little sound that cuts through the hum of the fan. Like he could even get it up. From what he’s heard, Jilly Miranda’s pretty sexy, but he doubts that it’d make a difference. 

“I’m telling you bro— she’s got the tightest ass, great tits— she’s the fuckin’ definition of milf,” Jack had told him the other day in his car while they shared a bowl. 

Pilot really hadn’t given a flying fuck, too mellow from the weed, so he just laughed, offering Jack a high-five. He remembers pointedly trying not to picture his best friend plowing some gangster’s wife.

He knows he’s jealous— he’s just not really sure who it is he’s jealous of. Pilot tilts his head over to Jack, squinting in the low lighting of his living room. Jack’s got one arm slung over his face like he’s shielding his eyes from nonexistent light, his chest slowly rising and falling. Asleep, probably. Fucker stays up all night by himself, then when he’s with Pilot he takes a fucking nap. Typical.

Pilot clambers to his feet, stretching out his arms until he hears the distinct pop of his joints. “M’gonna go smoke,” he announces, turning on his heel toward his room, not checking to see if Jack heard him. He’ll probably follow the smell of the weed anyway.

He hasn’t even finished rolling the joint yet when Jack stumbles in, blinking at him before rubbing his eyes. Pilot chuckles, abandoning his work to give Jack a once-over from his spot on the floor. “Good morning sleeping beauty.”

Jack flops down onto his bed, limbs splayed out in virtually the same position he’d been in when they were lying on the floor. “Fuck you,” he grunts. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Okay, you’re a _pool boy_ — I mean, how nasty can a pool even get? I’m the one who’s tired, life-guarding for all those old people day in and day out. I’m guarding their _lives_ , Jack.”

Jack ignores his little tangent, propping himself up on his elbows to look at him. “It’s not the pool that’s nasty dude, it’s Jilly. I mean, the bitch is fucking crazy— she’s started making me role play shit with her, you know?”

Pilot bristles at the mention of Jilly. That’s all Jack ever talks about nowadays, Jilly this, Jilly that. Fuck’s sake. He looks back down to finish rolling his joint, but he can feel Jack’s eyes on the side of his face, burning holes through him. There’s sweat pooling at the base of his neck, on the edge of his hairline, even on his palms. It’s fucking hot in his room— he hadn’t drawn the blinds earlier and now he’s paying the price. “No, I don’t know.”

Pilot prays to god that Jack won’t push it, but apparently, he’s the unluckiest bastard in all of Las Vegas— which is really saying something.

“What do you mean? Don’t you and Lucy, like, do it?” Jack pauses. “Don’t tell me she doesn’t put out.”

Pilot forces a laugh, holding up his finished joint to inspect it. “She does dude, but I don’t know, we don’t mess around a lot. Not like you and Jilly. Maybe she’s just not my type.”

The last time a girl gave him a boner was in fucking high school, so no, he doesn’t do it, not with Lucy, not with anyone else. He kind of feels bad for her. She’s a nice girl, or at least, she seems like she’s a nice girl. They don’t really talk much. Pilot drives her from her house to the Galleria, then from the Galleria to her house. Sometimes she invites him up to her room, but that never really leads anywhere— not when his dick barely even makes it to half-mast.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while, and Pilot doesn’t blame him. It feels like there’s something in the air, an unspoken truth hanging between them that neither of them cares to acknowledge. It’ll happen sooner or later, probably, but he’s not going to be the one to bring it up. He lights the joint, taking a long drag.

“I’m bored,” Jack groans, “let’s do something.” Pilot chances a look over at him, lying down again on his crinkled sheets, his profile illuminated by the late afternoon sun. Jack lifts his head up to look at him, a slight grin on his face. “You got anything good?”

It’s obvious that he’s not talking about Pilot’s ideas for activities that they could do. Even so, Pilot’s piece-of-shit horny brain immediately jumps back to the amorphous image of Jack fucking a mobster’s wife, sweat on his tanned skin, mouth parted in a groan. He takes another drag from his joint, savoring the burn of smoke in his lungs, distracting him from the other physical sensations going on in his body. 

He can’t deal with feelings, but dealing drugs? He’s your guy.

If Jack wants to get high on a Wednesday night, he’s not going to stop him. There’s a baggie of “trail mix” wedged in his sock drawer that he’s been meaning to distribute at the therapy pool, but he still hasn’t gotten around to doing it yet. Scawldy probably wouldn’t mind if they took some— probably. 

Whatever. He can just take a cut out of Pilot’s pay.

“I got some of this trail mix shit if you wanna do something with that,” he offers, already up on his feet because he knows Jack will say yes.

“Yeah? Sounds good to me.” Jack pushes himself up off the bed to stand next to Pilot, looming over his shoulder. Pilot hands him the bag, the little multicolored tabs clacking together inside the plastic. “What’s even in this stuff anyway?”

“Not sure. I think there’s E, then some other filler shit. Scawldy wanted me to sell it by the water park, so nothing major.” Pilot could go for something stronger, though, maybe something like horse tranquilizers. Jack’s staring through the bag at him, a devious grin on his lips that can only mean trouble. Trouble for both of them, but mostly for Pilot.

“I’m thinkin’ you, me, and this little bag of trail mix should take a trip out to the desert to watch the sunset. How ‘bout it, Pi?”

Pilot thinks that sounds fucking _gay_ , and like a bad idea since he’s already-kind-of-maybe in love with his best friend, but also— in what fucking universe would he ever say no to Jack Hayes?

“Can I drive the Monte?”

“Fuck no.”

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other, Jack dangling the bag in front of his face while he inhales more smoke. He’s a pain in the ass— dragging him all the way to the desert, taking his product, and he won’t even let him drive the goddamn car. Pilot blows smoke in his face, grinning at his surprised sputter and cough. “Was worth a shot.”

—

They ride in relative silence, the radio turned onto some staticky station playing a Bon Jovi song off the Billboard Hot 100, Jack absentmindedly drumming along with his fingers against the steering wheel. The desert seems to stretch on forever, bracketing them with vast stretches of light-brown sand turned orange in the haze of the setting sun. Las Vegas slips down the horizon line in the rearview mirror, getting smaller and smaller until Pilot can’t even see it anymore. For a moment he imagines what it’d be like if they left, once and for all, like they’d talk about when they were younger and still had some hope that they’d amount to something better than their parents.

It doesn’t matter now, though. Pilot won’t tear up his roots in Vegas to chase some pipe dream somewhere else. He’s got a good thing going, working with Scawldy, working at the therapy pool, driving Lucy around. Plus, he knows the cashier at their local Blockbuster from high school, so he gets a discount on candy when he rents movies. There’s no good reason for him to leave, nothing that makes him want to leave— besides the promise of the unknown. But that’s not something he wants to chase after by himself. Maybe he should look up Amy, see if she’d throw her life away with him.

“Dude,” Jack starts, pulling Pilot out of his train of thought. “Can I ask you something?”

“Just did.”

Jack lets go of the steering wheel to smack him, and only slightly swerves into the oncoming lane. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m serious.”

For the love of fucking god, do not bring up Jilly fucking Miranda again. “Shoot.”

“Do you not like Jilly?”

Oh my fucking god. “I don’t know her, so.”

Jack makes a frustrated sound that’s not exactly a whine, but it makes him sound like a little brat anyway, so close enough. He glances over at Pilot, peering over his aviators, and swerves slightly into the sand this time. “That’s not an answer.”

It’s not, but Pilot doesn’t really have an answer anyway. He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to come up with a better way to tell Jack to stop fucking Jilly other than ‘I think I want you to fuck me instead.’ It shouldn’t be as difficult as it turns out to be. “I just don’t think you should get involved with her, y’know? If Mr. Miranda ever found out—“

“He won’t find out.”

“Yeah, okay, but if he did, he’d probably do something totally uncalled for, something fucking gothic, like throwing you in an iron maiden or some shit.“ 

An iron maiden might be a bit of an exaggeration. Pilot makes a mental note to ask around about Miranda’s Pandas and their preferred form of punishment. He’d bet his whole limp dick that it’s something weird, like ripping out every other toenail or dislocating both arms and knees.

Jack pulls off of the highway, onto an almost indistinguishable dirt road that leads into the desert. “Clark told me they used to test nuclear bombs out here,” he says, his eyes trained on the road even though they’ve been down it enough times that he could probably find his way blindfolded. 

It’s a nice try at changing the subject, so Pilot’ll bite. “Clark’s full of shit. There’s no way they’d build a city next to all that radioactive rock.”

“Maybe that’s why things are so crazy in Vegas— get a shit-ton of gamblers, whores, and cokeheads all in one city and then expose them to radiation.”

Pilot feels like he could definitely go crazy, but probably not from nuclear bomb tests’ residual radiation. He doesn’t say anything else, though. He just wants to get high and not think about anything except for the sky and the songs playing out of the janky radio in Jack’s car. 

The sun’s almost fully beneath the horizon when the car skids to a stop, so Pilot tugs off his visor, tossing it to his feet. “So much for watching the sunset,” he sighs, looking over to Jack, who’s already popping a pill. For someone who was asleep on his living room floor less than an hour ago, Jack seems wide awake now, chugging down the remains of a Red Bull from the cup holder. 

Pilot’s not a pussy though, so he snatches the bag from Jack and dry-swallows one in one go. He only gags a little— if he’d drank it down with a scorching hot Red Bull from a week-old can he probably would have regurgitated his entire small intestine onto the dashboard of the car. God, he can’t even imagine all the bitching Jack would’ve done.

“And now,” Jack says, undoing his seatbelt, “we wait.” He clambers out of the driver’s seat (with a surprising lack of grace for someone who is definitely not rolling yet), and lies down on the hood of the car. “Pi, c’mere! The moon’s out!”

Pilot groans, pushing open his door. “I’m coming, I’m coming— fuck’s sake.” 

There’s barely enough room for them on the hood, but Jack slaps the spot next to him with an air of finality that doesn’t leave much room for argument. Besides, Pilot’s still kind of mellowed out from smoking earlier— he doesn’t have the brainpower to argue over something so trivial. 

The sun’s gone down completely, the early autumn chill settling in as the desert grows colder without the constant light beating down on it. That’s another downside to living in Vegas, living in the desert— it feels like the sun is always present, always watching. No secrets between you and the sun, not until night. Maybe that’s why all the voids go out on the strip after dark.

“Pilot, I can hear you thinking from here. Quit it.”

That’s not saying much, considering they’re actually, legitimately pressed up against each other’s sides now. He wouldn’t be surprised if Jack could hear his heartbeat, given how close they are. “I’m cold,” he mutters, as if that’s an even remotely coherent response.

Jack chuckles, a nice deep rumble that Pilot can feel reverberating through the thin metal, like an engine. “What’re you talking about, dude? The hood’s so warm.”

Pilot presses his palms against the hood, and sure enough, he can feel the faint heat radiating up from the mechanics of the car. It’s not enough, still, but he keeps his mouth shut, his eyes trained on the sky. They aren’t too far from Vegas, so the light pollution obscures most of the stars, but the moon still cuts through the neon— bright white in the sea of growing black.

In another life, maybe he could’ve been a poet or something. 

“You remember when we used to come out here in high school?” Jack asks, unprompted.

“Yeah, I remember— a six-pack of Clark’s PBR, the radio blaring music to scare away the coyotes.”

“Felt like we were the only two people on Earth, man.”

As far as Pilot’s concerned, they still are. At least, they’re the only two people who matter. Them against the rest of the world, like it’s always been— like he hopes it’ll always be, until Jack finds some higher calling, stops screwing Jilly Miranda and realizes he’s always been destined for more than just cleaning pools. 

He feels lonely all of a sudden, despite the fact that they’re basically joined at the hip.

“Pop quiz,” Jack says after a long stretch of silence, turning over onto his side to face him, the Monte creaking alarmingly under their combined weight.

“Jack—“

“Don’t fuckin’ ‘Jack’ me, Pi. Pop quiz.”

Pilot sighs, closing his eyes. “Go.”

“How long have we been friends?”

He knows the answer to that question like the back of his hand, and so does Jack. He remembers the day he and his mom moved into the trailer park like it was yesterday. Jack had come over to ask him to play before they’d even finished setting up their plumbing. “I don’t know, nineteen years?”

“ _Beep_. How many days have we spent together?”

That’s a harder question. “Too many to count?”

“ _Beeep_. How long will we be friends?”

“C’mon man, I’m not psychic—“

“Just answer— answer the fucking question.”

Jack’s probably on his way to really rolling, judging by the slight slur to his words, so there’s no harm in saying whatever he wants to hear. He won’t remember it come tomorrow morning anyway. “Always and forever.”

“ _Beep_!” Jack grins, sitting up on the hood despite the sound of the straining metal. “Perfect score. Gold star.” He presses his thumb to Pilot’s forehead, lingering for a little bit longer than he usually does. It’s a familiar gesture, but it seems more meaningful now, given Jack’s line of questioning. 

An even more pressing problem— it feels _really_ good. It couldn’t have been a half-hour already, could it?

But then Jack’s laughing to himself out of the blue, devolving into breathless gasps, and yeah, maybe it’s kicking in. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not cold anymore. If anything, he’s overheating like he’d been earlier— his skin tacky with sweat despite the cold breeze.

“I think— think I’m there,” Jack murmurs, before pressing his face into the crook of his elbow. “What’m I s’posed to be feeling again?”

Pilot racks his brain for the answer to his question, but it’s really difficult considering how uncomfortably hot he’s gotten. “I’m fucking hot, uh— like, happy and stuff. Lovey-dovey if you’re with someone, touchy-feely. Are you not sweating?”

Jack ignores his question in favor of lying back down on the hood. “That doesn’t fucking help, considering I feel that kind of shit around you all the time.” He pauses for a second, smacking his lips. “I’m thirsty.”

“What— what?” Pilot’s suddenly very aware of how close he is to Jack. He’s been thinking about that a lot today, about how close they are physically and how far they are emotionally, but now, it’s different. They’re close, but he wants to get closer. He wants to feel the rise and fall of Jack’s chest with every breathless gasp he takes— wants to get under his skin and stay there forever, just like that stupid snake tattoo he’s got on his upper back.

“Mhmm,” Jack hums. “D’you remember— d’you remember those nudie magazines we used to steal from the record store? And how we’d go out to the desert to look at ‘em, ‘cause I didn’t want Booty to see, and your mom always snooped in your room—“ He cuts himself off with a laugh, clutching at his sides like he’s just told the funniest joke. 

Pilot watches him tumble off his side of the hood and onto the sand, only mildly concerned. It seems nicer on the ground anyway, so he rolls over until he thuds down onto the sand, half-on Jack. He thwacks the back of his head against the bumper, momentarily seeing stars like he’s some kind of _Loony Tunes_ extra. “Ow, fuck,” he groans, blindly grabbing for the edge of the car to pull himself up, before giving up and flopping back onto the sand. 

The sky’s so dark and empty. He misses stars. The neon lights aren’t worth it.

“Pilot!” Jack scrambles over to him, grabbing his face with sandy hands. It feels nice. “Are you dead?”

Pilot chooses to shake his head instead of responding out loud, enjoying the drag of Jack’s calloused palms against his face, the grit of sand against his skin. It feels so, so nice. Like he hasn’t been touched in days, weeks— like he hasn’t been touched _ever_. He feels hot all over, too, but it’s a good heat, pooling low in his gut and staying there.

It’s staying there.

Holy fucking shit, it’s _really_ staying there.

“Dude,” he forces out through his squished cheeks— Jack pressing them together instead of cupping them, staring down at him in awe. If this were a different time, maybe Pilot would’ve had an internal crisis about it, but right now, he’s busy trying to cope with the fact that he’s got a boner. “Jack— stop it, goddamnit.”

He pulls away from him, running a sweaty hand through his somehow sweatier hair. Jack blinks at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think my— I think my dick’s hard?” It comes out as a question, because Pilot can barely believe it himself. But when he tilts his head to look down the length of his body, sure enough, his pants have a noticeable tent in the crotch.

“Holy fucking shit, Pi,” Jack breathes, before settling his hands on Pilot’s splayed thighs. “It’s a fucking miracle.”

Again, at a different time, Pilot would probably chalk it up to be a side effect of the “trail mix” they’d just taken. Right now, though, he’s hyper-aware of the heat of Jack’s hands seeping through the fabric of his pants, and of the implications of their position. It takes an alarming amount of self-control for him to not buck his hips up in the air— even though he actively stills them, they twitch upwards when Jack tightens his hold. 

“Are you gonna, y’know—“ Jack mimes jerking off with one hand. “Might be your only chance.”

He hadn’t thought of that. Sure, he’s got a boner now, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to get it up all the time from here on out. “Out here?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Pilot’s kind of feeling the high, but he’s not fucked up enough to jerk off on the side of the highway like some of the other whack-jobs that hang out on the strip. “I’m not gonna expose myself just so I can get my rocks off. I have some moral integrity, you know.” 

(That’s kind of a lie— the longer he has this boner, the more willing he is to fucking throw caution to the wind.)

Jack perks up then, pulling on Pilot’s arm until they’re both standing up. “Jerk off in the Monte,” he says, like he’s not the most anal person about his car.

“You want me to jerk off in your car? The same car you won’t even let me drive?”

Jack shrugs. “Just don’t come on my seats and we should be good. I’ll sit out here and wait until you’re done.”

And it doesn’t sound like a good idea, but it’s also not the worst idea that Jack’s ever had. Pilot glances at the car, then back to Jack, whose face has that telltale look of if-you-don’t-give-in-to-me-I-will-be-a-dick-to-you-for-the-next-few-hours. 

“Okay. Fine. It’s your car.”

He wrenches open the car door, climbing into the backseat with the coordination of someone who just took fucking _trail mix_ and also just hit their head off a car bumper. He can see Jack through the windshield, giving him a thumbs-up. What a dick.

Pilot rolls his eyes, before lying back on the seats, careful not to hit his head again. “Here we fucking go,” he mutters to himself, before undoing his button and fly and pushing his pants down his thighs. It’s been a while since he last got off, but he can probably figure it out— it’s like riding a bike.

He palms at his dick through the thin material of his boxers, gasping at the touch of his own hand. It’s not as nice as the feeling of Jack’s hands on his face, but he can work with it. Besides, he should try his best to not think about Jack, considering his best friend is right outside. He was nice enough to let Pilot jerk off in the backseat of his car, but he’s probably not very interested in being the main focus of said jerk off session.

Once he manages to let go of his dick to get inside his underwear, he wraps a hand around his cock and gives it a few languid strokes. He’s already leaking precum, but he brings his palm up to his mouth, wetting it with his tongue before gripping himself and pumping faster. If he weren’t in the middle of the desert in the fucking Monte, maybe he would have been able to get some lotion instead of smearing saliva on his cock like some mindless, horny teenager.

“Oh fuck,” Pilot groans under his breath, the drag of his hand against his skin reminding him of larger, calloused hands that could be wrapped around him instead. 

No matter how hard he tries to keep his thoughts in check, they always loop back to Jack. That probably means he’s in some deep shit, but he’s too horny to think about that right now.

Pilot quickens the pace of his hand, languid strokes becoming slightly more frantic. He just wants to come, for the love of fucking god. 

He twists his wrist, the heat of his cock and his hand both intense against his skin. “Jesus Christ,” he gasps under his breath, thumbing at his slit and smearing precome across the sensitive head of his dick. He wants to feel someone else’s hands across his body, wants something other than his hand to fuck up into. 

He’s moaning, lifting his hips up off the backseat, slightly meeting the pumps of his hand, but it’s not enough. Pilot’s close, sure, but he can’t fucking get himself over the edge— and he can’t just go back out there like this. 

He digs through his spank bank for something to get him off— Lucy’s mouth wrapped around his dick, Amy’s hands clutching at his shoulders. It doesn’t do much, though. He knows what he wants to think about. 

It slips out from his mouth before he can stop it, one breathless, damning _Jack_. It’s weird to hear his best friend’s name given the circumstances, but it doesn’t matter now— his dick gives an interested twitch, so Pilot takes it as a good sign. “Shit, Jack,” he gasps, his cock blurting precum and increasing the slide of his hand over his skin.

At this point, he doesn’t care if Jack can hear him.

Or maybe he should care, because Pilot’s getting closer to that fan-fucking-tastic feeling of _release_ when Jack wrenches the door open. 

“Is everything okay?” Jack asks, sticking his head in like the car doesn’t smell like sex— like Pilot’s not holding his fucking dick in one hand. He doesn’t even move to cover himself. Jack’s the one who barged in on him, and it’s nothing he hasn’t seen anyway.

“ _Jack_ ,” he groans, decidedly less turned on by saying his name. “Can I have some fucking privacy?”

Jack doesn’t seem to register anything he’s saying, staring blankly at his face before his gaze flicks to Pilot’s crotch. He swallows, the sound reverberating in the cramped car. “Do you— do you want help?”

What, are they playing two shitty games of twenty questions? “What?”

“I just, I don’t know, I thought I heard you calling my name,” Jack says, a half-assed explanation, breaking their streak of questions. There’s an uncertainty in his voice that implies a question, though. 

It’d be so easy to say yes, but so hard to deal with the repercussions. 

Fuck it.

“I was, kinda.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. “So— does that mean you want me to help?”

Pilot’s cards are all on the table. Now it’s just a matter of accepting that he’s lost. If he says yes, if he gives in to that heat, that stupid fucking _desire_ gnawing at his gut, it could cost him his friendship with Jack. Couldn’t it?

He’s overthinking again. Before he can even string together a coherent thought, Jack’s clambering into the backseat, nudging his legs apart with one knee. He slots his thigh between them, flashing Pilot a grin. “Wanna hump my leg?”

Jesus Christ, he almost has a fucking conniption at the low rumble of Jack’s voice— and at the prospect of using Jack to get himself off. Just mindlessly rutting his hips against his jean-clad thigh. His dick gives another twitch where it rests on his stomach. “Do you— do you want me to?”

Jack laughs, his face flushed a nice red, but apparently not from embarrassment. “Yeah man, I want you to get off. Whatever your method.”

“Okay, yeah. I can— yeah.” He moves to undo Jack’s fly, but Jack stops him with a warm hand around his wrist.

“Nothing personal, Pi— just saving you the trouble.” He seems sheepish about it, which is pretty new. Jack’s usually annoyed about his whole orgasm situation, but never embarrassed. It’s not like he can’t get it up— he just can’t come.

Pilot considers saying something. It’s not fair for him to get off while Jack just kneels over him.

But then, Jack’s grinding his hips down, pressing his thigh against Pilot’s bare dick, and all semblance of rational thought goes right out the window. He gasps, startled by the sudden friction against his skin. It’s rough and it _hurts_ , but for some reason, his hands come up to grasp at Jack’s broad shoulders. “Oh fuck, don’t stop.”

Jack grips at Pilot’s hips hard enough to bruise— god, he hopes he fucking bruises— and flattens himself against the front of his chest. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, muffling the words into his neck. It’s almost romantic, almost like Jack’s kissing his neck— like this is more than a one-off backseat fuck.

It might be the heat, it might be the delirium from whatever the hell that trail mix was, or it might just be Pilot’s stupid brain. He uses his grasp on Jack’s shoulders to push him away from his neck and pull him into a kiss.

Kiss is a loose word for whatever their mouths are doing. There’s a lot of biting, a lot of tongue— maybe even some tongue biting. It’s nothing like he’d imagined in his stupid romantic fantasies. But that doesn’t matter, because the main point is that Jack doesn’t push him away— just rocks his hips against Pilot’s and gasps into his mouth.

All his nerves are firing at once, every spot that Jack touches lighting up in a heady mix of heat and pleasure. “Oh god,” he moans, pulling away from the kiss to pant against Jack’s cheek. “Oh my fucking _god_.” 

Jack’s hard against his hip, straining in his jeans, and Pilot can’t help the satisfaction that wells up in his chest. _He_ did that. He’s just as good as Jilly Miranda, maybe even better— Jack never talks about kissing her, and here he is, sucking on Pilot’s tongue like an over-enthusiastic teenager.

He’s so caught up in the sensory overload that he almost forgets he’s supposed to be humping Jack’s leg. Jack, who’s still fully clothed, while Pilot’s pants are pushed down around his thighs, his shirt lifted high enough to expose his stomach. There’s something really, really _hot_ about that, something that gets his hips moving again in a frantic rhythm.

Jack pulls away again to look down at him, his eyes wide in awe. “That’s it, Pi, you’re almost there, come on.”

Pilot just makes a desperate sound in his throat, tipping his head back in frustration. He so close to finally scratching that itch, but still so far. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Jack’s hand wipes at the corner of his eyes, overwhelmingly gentle.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Let me help you. I’m gonna help you, okay?”

He nods his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Jack hums softly, before taking Pilot’s dick into his hand. His calloused palm feels like heaven— a religious fucking experience that he’ll never forget. He strokes him carefully, almost hesitantly, before Pilot clutches at his shoulders and draws him in closer. He picks up the pace so suddenly that Pilot sees stars, like he’s hit his head off the bumper again.

“Jack,” he gasps, as Jack’s fist gets tighter, gets faster. “I’m gonna— ah, fuck— I’m gonna come.”

That’s all the warning he gives before he’s spilling over Jack’s fist, onto Jack’s jeans, onto his own stomach. It’s pure relief, better than pleasure— he comes until it _hurts_ , until he’s breathless and shaking, clinging onto Jack like a lifeline. He can’t see straight, can’t hear anything besides the persistent ringing in his ears. He vaguely registers Jack taking off his tank top, using it to wipe at the cum on his stomach.

He doesn’t even get a chance to say thank you, or apologize, or _anything_. His head feels heavy, and sleeping in the Monte is suddenly the most appealing thought he’s had all day. 

Jack tugs his pants back up his thighs, before rolling him onto his side. He lies down beside him, even with the tight squeeze. Pilot’s suddenly reminded of how they used to cram onto his bed when they were younger, all the countless times they’d been pressed up against one another just like this. It seems like lifetimes ago, and yet.

Something has changed between them, maybe. Hopefully for the better.

Who would’ve thought that his broken dick could be so life-changing?

Pilot falls asleep to the quiet of the desert, the sound of Jack’s breathing, and the feeling of his heart beating against his back— that thought of _always and forever._

**Author's Note:**

> pilot in the movie: bababooey |:~)  
> me writing him: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it w
> 
> thanks 4 reading


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